Chapter 20
REID
Work was a mess. Not the calls themselves—those were routine.
No, the mess was in my head.
Every moment of downtime, every quiet stretch between calls, my brain looped right back to the same damn thing. Laine's suggestion. The three of us. Together.
Not like "together at brunch" together. Together together.
Tony caught me staring at the wall twice. Asked if I was feeling okay. I told him I was fine, just tired.
Liar.
I couldn't stop replaying it. The way Laine's voice had gone soft and uncertain when she brought it up.
The careful way she'd watched my face, like she was bracing for me to bolt.
And me — just sitting there like an idiot with my mouth half open, not knowing what to say. Real eloquent, Reid. Top marks.
A throuple. I'd tried the word out loud in the rig while Tony was in the gas station bathroom.
Just me and the steering wheel and the faint smell of stale coffee.
Throuple. Rolled it around like a marble I didn't know what to do with.
It sounded like something from a reality TV show.
Not something that happened to guys like me.
Except maybe it fucking did.
I drummed my fingers against my knee. Shifted in my seat. Shifted again.
Maybe it did.
I pull into the driveway and kill the engine. Sit there for a minute, hands still on the wheel. Blake's truck is here. So is the light in his workshop, spilling yellow through the small window.
Great. We're doing this tonight, I guess.
My legs feel heavy when I climb out. Not tired-heavy. Dread-heavy. The kind of weight that settles in your bones when you know a hard conversation is coming and there's no way around it.
The workshop door creaks when I push it open. I keep meaning to oil those hinges. Or more specifically, tell Blake to oil them. Because I have absolutely no idea how to do that. Is it WD-40? Actual oil? Do hinges even take oil? Doesn't matter. Not the point.
Sawdust and wood stain and that old concrete smell hit me before I'm two steps in.
Usually that smell relaxes me — makes my shoulders drop without me even thinking about it.
Tonight it just makes me think of all the hours Blake and I have spent in this room.
From the dark moments, to kicking back with a beer.
If we're going to do heavy, it's good it'll happen here.
Blake's not at the workbench. That's the first thing that feels off.
He's on the couch. The beat-up one in the corner — the one we hauled off somebody's curb three years ago because Blake said he needed somewhere to "think" between projects.
Which, sure. The fabric's got more mystery stains than original color at this point, but neither of us has ever floated the idea of replacing it.
You don't replace a couch like that. It knows too much.
He's just sitting there. Staring at the floor like it owes him money.
"You look like you had the kind of day I did."
Blake doesn't jump. Doesn't even turn his head. "Didn't hear you come in."
"Clearly." I grab the metal stool by the workbench and drag it over. The legs scrape against the concrete — sharp, loud, obnoxious in the quiet. Good. Quiet was getting too comfortable in here. "You been sitting here long?"
"Couple hours."
"Productive."
"Incredibly." He finally looks at me. His eyes are bloodshot. Tired in a way that sleep doesn't fix. "You first, or me?"
That's Blake. Straight to it. No small talk, no dancing around. Part of me is grateful. The other part wanted another few minutes to figure out what the hell I'm going to say.
"Me, I guess." I settle onto the stool. It wobbles under my weight. "I don't know if I can watch you two together without wanting to break something."
Yeah, we're going there. No easing into this conversation.
Blake doesn't flinch. Just nods slowly, like he expected exactly that. "Okay."
"That's it? Okay?"
"What do you want me to say, Reid?" He leans forward, elbows on his knees.
His hands hang loose between them, but I can see the tension in his forearms. The way his fingers keep flexing.
"You think I don't get that? I watched you two for months.
Every dinner. Every time you touched her in the kitchen.
Every time she looked at you like — " He stops.
Jaw tight. "I know what that feels like. Pretty fucking intimately."
Right. I somehow let myself forget that.
He's been living this while I was oblivious. Walking around with that weight while I brought Laine home and kissed her and talked about the future like Blake wasn't standing right there.
"And you didn't break anything," I say.
Something flickers across his face. "I broke plenty. You know that."
Fuck. Yeah, I know that. Maybe if I'd seen him throw a plate across the room, or put his fist through the drywall I would have woken the fuck up sooner.
Neither of us says anything for a while. Blake picks up a chisel from the workbench beside him, turns it over in his hands. Not doing anything with it. Just holding it.
"I keep thinking about the logistics," he says finally.
"The logistics. Super romantic. Very encouraging."
"What does Tuesday night look like? What does Saturday morning look like? She comes over and we all just... sit on the couch and watch TV?"
"I mean, maybe? I don't know." I'm already off the stool.
Can't help it. I hop up on the workbench instead, legs dangling.
Blake gives me the look — the one that says don't sit on my workbench — but doesn't say anything.
"I keep trying to picture it and my brain just stalls out.
Like a computer with too many tabs open and half of them are playing different music. "
"Same."
"Ok. Good talk. Glad we got this figured out.
" I snag a scrap piece of wood off the bench and flip it end over end between my fingers.
"Okay but seriously. She's here. We're all hanging out.
That part I can actually see. That's basically what we were already doing before everything imploded.
Movie night, tacos, me beating you both at cards—"
"You've never beaten me at cards."
"I've beaten you at cards multiple times."
"You've cheated at cards multiple times."
"Irrelevant. The point is—" I gesture with the wood scrap. "Normal stuff. Hanging out. That works. But then it's nighttime and she's..." I make a vague sleeping motion with the wood scrap. Realize it looks obscene. Stop. "You know."
Blake goes very still.
"Yeah," he says quietly.
"Because there's one of her. And two of us. And unless someone's building a second master bedroom — which, actually, you probably could, you've got the skills—"
"Reid."
"I'm just saying it out loud because somebody has to. And you sure as hell weren't going to." I toss the wood scrap in the air, catch it. "I'm not trying to be weird about it. But we live in the same house. The walls are pretty thin."
Blake scrubs a hand over his face. The rasp of his palm against stubble is loud in the quiet.
"I don't have an answer for that," he says.
"I know."
"I don't think we figure that out in a workshop."
"We could draw up blueprints. You love blueprints."
He almost smiles. Almost. "Shut up."
"I'm serious though." I miss my next catch and the wood scrap clatters onto the concrete.
Neither of us picks it up. "Not about the blueprints.
About the — how does this work when it's real and daily and not just an idea we're kicking around?
What happens when she wants to spend time with you and I'm just.. . there? In the next room? Knowing?"
"Knowing what?"
"Come on, man. Don't make me spell it out."
"I'm not trying to be—"
"Knowing you're with her. All of it. The whole deal.
" The words scrape on the way out. "I said it made sense when she kissed you.
And it did. In the moment. But that's one kiss in a living room while we were all having emotional breakdowns.
That's not the same as a regular Wednesday night where she's in your room and I'm watching TV alone trying not to think about it. "
Blake's hands find the chisel again. Turning it over and over.
"I can't promise you it won't hurt," he says finally. "I'd be lying if I did. And I can't promise I'll handle it well either — you being with her. I've been living with that for months and it damn near destroyed me."
"Right. So we'd both just be... walking around with that. All the time."
"Or we talk about it when it gets bad." He puts the chisel down. Deliberately. Like he's making himself stop. "Instead of doing what we always do."
"Which is?"
"Shove it down until somebody explodes."
"Wow. Direct hit. No notes." I slide off the workbench. Lean against the far wall. Slide down until I'm sitting on the concrete, legs stretched out. Blake raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment. "And you're Mr. Communication now? Since when?"
"Since I spent three months with nothing to do but think."
"Three months in a war zone."
"Lots of downtime between the parts that aren't downtime."
"And you spent it becoming a relationship expert."
"I spent it figuring out all the ways I screwed this up." No self-pity. Just flat. "Had plenty of material to work with."
I don't have a comeback for that. So I sit with it.
The workshop creaks around us. Old wood doing its thing. I stare at the ceiling. There's a cobweb in the corner that's been there so long the spider probably has grandkids.